Talk to the Emperor Twice
by Buckbeak's Revenge
Summary: The story of the Emperor's portrait and its painter. Oneshot. Note: I'm not really proud of this one, and I've rethought some of the events, so when I finish Song of Hope, I'll edit this piece accordingly.


Old Hengist had been a fool to undertake this project. He had been a fool to think that his painting skills had not rusted over the years, and a fool to believe that he was doomed if he did not paint.

As his painting neared completion, he knew with the utmost certainty that the Emperor would be displeased.

Certainly, he had spent too much time with the scholars of Albrook, enough time to realize that they were imprisoned. The scholars who had come – been taken – to Albrook the earliest, when Albrook was the only city the Empire controlled, could not evoke any thought but that. When rebellion had last resurged, these first scholars had been the most vociferous rebels – they had all died for it – and those who were not locked themselves away and reappeared gaunt, haunted and inalterably changed.

Hengist struggled to remember the cause of the rebellion – some violation of honor on the northern continent, he knew, but he knew little more. He tried not to involve himself with anything that wasn't right in front of him.

Indeed, Hengist hadn't even fought seventeen years ago, when the Empire had invaded. He couldn't be sure that his knowledge of the scholars was enough to spell his doom, in retrospect.

Yet here he was, trying to save himself by painting the Emperor, and dooming himself all the more surely.

Vector Palace was restored, and there was no excuse to dawdle any more. The Emperor could appear at any moment, and his work was undeniably flawed. He should have known this – it had been thirty years since he'd as much as picked up a paintbrush – but there was no turning back now.

He was a fool.

Hengist altered the hair a bit, to offset the dull placement, but it did little. Any more would make Emperor Gestahl seem to wear a wig.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, and signed the painting. His death warrant.

The Emperor arrived the next morning, to much fanfare from the soldiers. Hengist put down the shutters on his flat's windows. The town might be witness to his hanging, but never to his humiliation.

Trembling, the old man opened his door wide and knelt, holding it open.

His proud patron strode in, taking no heed of the figure at the door. He took a glance at the painting, then said, "Where is the artist?"

Slumped against the wall, Hengist whispered, "I, I am here, my lord."

Gestahl walked over. "Far too placid, I am afraid. And too rabbit-like."

Too true to life. The thought shocked him, but then, it no longer mattered what he thought.

"No," the Emperor enunciated clearly, "it would not do to hang this in the palace."

Gestahl took a hurried glance out the door. He was almost… _fearful_, Hengist realized. Then, he closed it, and chanted some incantation with his hand to it. It flashed steel-grey, then reverted.

"In Jidoor," he continued, "there is a wealthy collector who will surely accept your work. The docks are now open – you may make your way there."

_He was going to live. _Why, he couldn't fathom, but the fact was all that mattered.

The Emperor took a paper out of his pocket. "These soldiers may view the collection if they so desire– " he handed the document to Hengist – "but only these."

Most of the names were unfamiliar, but Delos – he was from Albrook, and, from all Hengist had heard, in Vector's dungeons for crossing a general. This went well beyond an act of mercy. This was totally inexplicable.

"If I should perish, inform these men to 'talk to the Emperor twice.' Bring them into contact with Bagian the Mountaineer. They'll know what to do."

Aware of his own mortality, too. Something major was happening, not that Hengist was ever meant to learn what on earth _was _happening.

"I hope the damage isn't too severe," Gestahl muttered, and he left without a backward glance.

Hengist was spared.

His close brush with death had made Hengist feel untouchable, and he felt free to put off his expedition to Jidoor.

He was untouchable as daylight, or the very foundations of the earth. So he had thought in complacency; so he thought now in regret.

When the shadow fell over Albrook, Hengist had been unsettled, but he did not leave as soon as he ought to have. He had only readied his things when a tumult outside town attracted his attention.

"No delaying, then. We gather our parley standards - we make for Mobliz -"

"But isn't that where -"

"I'm telling you, this, this was no elemental magic. This was no force of arms. It can only mean -"

"-that we ally ourselves with Returner scum?"

"We have a common enemy now."

In a frenzied rush, most of the Imperial garrison made for the docks. In their wake, four soldiers remained, solemnly bearing a broke body. The mantle was singed, and the beard, but...

It seemed the Emperor's fears had been well-placed. Hengist paused to contemplate the matter further -

Then the tremors had begun.

The tremors, and the rifts, and the searing fire had lasted for seven days. The mountains to the north crumbled, burying Vector under their weight, only to build a more fearsome edifice, a tower that stood unwaveringly, reveling in the chaos around it.

When the never-ending destruction halted, the survivors found the shoreline utterly disfigured. The only city reachable by carrier pigeon was Tzen - it seemed the world would need to be rediscovered. Hengist had no way of reaching Jidoor. No way of knowing if Jidoor continued to exist, for that matter.

But if it was located, and did not lie in ruins, he would bring the painting at once, and find the soldiers on that list, if any survived. In the meantime, he would rebuild Albrook with the rest.

Somehow, he knew inaction was ill-suited to this cruel new landscape.


End file.
